Elementary, My Dear Hiei
by JaganshiKenshin
Summary: A haunted mansion is the setting, and a frightened family discovers two mysterious strangers at their doorstep on a dark and stormy night.
1. The Curse of the Haunted Manor

Disclaimer: Kenshin does not own the Yuu Yuu Hakusho characters (they are the property of Togashi Yoshihiro et al), and does not make any money from said characters.

What Kenshin **does** own, however, are all the original characters in this work. Any attempt to "borrow" these characters will be met with the katana, or worse.

A word about my storylines: The events in _Idiot Beloved_ take place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. As reference, I use a combination of the subtitled anime, the American manga, plus some of the CD dramas.

This particular tale occurs some time after the conclusion of The Cowboy Trilogy/_Sidekick_, and contains both Hiei and Kurama-and a mystery surrounding an old estate that never quite recovered from its previous owner.

Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C1: The Curse of the Haunted Manor)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: The sudden appearance of two mysterious gentlemen only adds to the terror of a transplanted English family.

A/N: As always, thanks for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews!

Behind every shadow lurks danger

Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C1: The Curse of the Haunted Manor)

by

Kenshin

It was a dark and stormy night when the beleaguered Puffington clan discovered two trespassers.

The rain did not so much fall as gush like clear blood from a lightning-clawed sky. Crashes of thunder rattled the windows of the mansion house, wringing from the un-nerved occupants startled cries.

Huddled together round the meager fire, the Puffingtons were a family besieged, yet putting on a brave front.

Pudgerella, the mother, Dumpling, the father, their two almost-grown children, and Pudge's brother comprised the little group.

_And they say money solves all problems,_ thought Pudgerella.

"What's next, I wonder," muttered Dumpling. "After the fortnight we've had."

Pudge gazed fondly at her husband. Dumpy dear hadn't changed his manner of dress one bit, from the worn corduroy jacket to the tweed cap that warmed his round bald head.

But Dumpling didn't seem to understand that Pudge now found herself with a whole new batch of worries to replace their longstanding financial woes.

The least of these worries was that none of them, not Dumpy, nor teenage son Twitchy nor almost-twenty daughter Mopey, nor younger brother Smarmy, were to the manor born. Rather, they had won the Irish Sweepstakes, despite being English to the core.

So naturally, once they had sighed in relief, they (anonymously, of course) paid off some debts for their neighbors, like old Mr. Scoggins next door, and the Gaines sisters, whose clothes were always threadbare. Then they bought a double round for everyone at the local pub. And that very night, a kind realtor, one Miss Joan Beame, offered them her assistance, securing a bargain-priced mansion fit for a king, and putting them onto a fabled fancy called The Tredmonton Tiara, all emeralds and diamonds, to go with it.

Without further ado, the Puffingtons packed up and moved to the mansion in Japan, to the north of Tokyo.

Nestled in the Honetadare mountains, surrounded by towering evergreens, the Tarukane manor gave them both privacy and space.

Fashioned along the lines of a French chateau, which was to Pudge quite the thing, the manor featured a turret at the north end, making it castle-like enough to pass muster.

A Tokyo employment agency had supplied them with the staff to properly maintain the manor, and at first, day-to-day living seemed so much better than all five of them crammed into their single bed-sitting room back home that Pudge felt as though she were dreaming.

For one, marvel of marvels, everyone had separate bedrooms with deluxe private baths. This was such a superior arrangement to their old one-room flat near Wenlock Basin, where they'd had to share an unpleasant little bath down a grimy narrow hallway with all the other tenants.

For another, the manor and its surroundings closely resembled the ones Pudge so enjoyed seeing on broadcasts of _Masterpiece Theater._

All well and good. However, they had gained not only a fortune, but a particular set of problems-problems never encountered in their native land. Only the damp and the chill seemed familiar. One could hardly expect warm weather in February, yet the mansion remained cold, no matter how many logs they piled on the fire.

There was also the matter of the tiara.

As it turned out, the Tredmonton Tiara came complete not with only a fabled history but a curse, which seemed to unfurl more of its wickedness upon them with each passing day.

But Dumpy was, in spite of his outward appearance, quite stubborn. He would not consider selling the mansion. It would be seen as a retreat, a failure, and that would not do.

Thunder crashed its fist upon the house.

Twitchy jumped. "This is exactly the kind of weather we were supposed to be leaving behind!" Twitchy, whose birthname was Titch, but whose nickname suited him far better, was keen for sport; if it rolled or bounced or flew he was fanatical, glued to the telly for each event. In fact he wore the orange-and-green striped jersey of the Bingham Brawlers.

Rain spat against the windows. Mopey shivered.

"Lay you four to one the roof starts leaking," Twitchy said to Smarmy.

"Not a chance, boy. Still. You'd think we could have afforded a better climate." Muffled in a baggy fisherman's sweater that made him appear like an animated marshmallow, Smarmy was given to snide remarks.

Pudge put both hands to her face. "Maybe we should have moved to Greece instead, only this house was such a bargain."

"And now we know why." Twitchy's wild ginger hair resembled that of his father's, back in the days when Dumpy had had any.

When one particularly brilliant and malevolent lightning-flash lit the sky to a momentary yellow, Merope cried out, "There's something among the trees!"

They rushed to the window.

Merope had been given her classical Greek name for its elegance, and the proper nickname for Merope might well be Merry, but 'Merry' was at such great odds with the girl's personality it would have seemed an affront to use it. Pudge and Dumpling's only daughter was as quiet as the storm was not, and now given to sulks and pallors, all of which had grown markedly worse during the past week.

In appearance, dear Mopey was quite unlike her parents, who were, face facts, plain as the flour dumplings which had inspired Pudge's fond nickname for her husband.

Really Mope might clean up very nicely if she styled her hair and chose becoming garb. Like their son, Mope was long and thin, proving Pudge's long-held theory that somewhere in their background lurked an elegant streak of royal blood. ('Or royal-ish, anyway,' Pudge was fond of saying.)

"Where, dear?" Pudge peered at the thick dark trees. "I don't see anything."

"Wait till the next flash, of course." Smarmy, who had never worked a day in his life, and whose real name had all but been forgotten, could be a bit of a know-it-all.

Not that the nickname fit his physical appearance either; Smarmy was round like Pudge, with an open, innocent face and a little moustache like a tired moth resting just above his cupid's-bow mouth. Maybe his voice was a bit oily, but still he was family.

They huddled anxiously round the great tall window.

The next flash clove the gloom to reveal a rather large caravan under the dense trees surrounding the house, and-

"There is someone!" Pudge gasped. "He's-digging!"

She saw a man with a shovel, spading and lifting, but could not see much detail. The wind plucked at his coat, and rain exploded upon his hat, making Pudge shiver in sympathy.

"Digging what?" wondered Smarmy. "A grave?"

"I'll give you good odds on-" began Twitchy.

"Ghouls and grave-robbers on our doorstep," muttered Dumpy. "If this isn't the very limit-"

"There are two of them," noted Pudge. "One's standing there watching the other!"

Merope backed slowly away and hugged herself. Pudge worried about Mopey. Just before leaving London, Pudge had bought a nice new watercolor set for her girl. It was the one Mopey had always happily gazed upon in the shop window, and in fact was the very best as the shopkeeper said, Winsor and Newton, with such pretty colors, but in spite of her new and picturesque surroundings Mope showed no interest in resuming her art.

"Digging up a patch of earth during a rainstorm like this," huffed Dumpy. "It's an outrage I tell you!"

"He's stopped," said Twitchy, as though disappointed.

"They're both going inside that caravan," said Dumpy.

"Why not call the coppers on them?" inquired Smarmy. "We've every right. They're trespassing on our land after all."

"But Smarmy dear," Pudge reminded him. "The phone is dead."

This was true; Pudge feared they might be reduced to communicating with the outside world by post.

As one, their gazes fell upon the mysterious envelope lying on the side table.

"Shall we open the letter?"

They had feared to do so before, but now it seemed urgent. Dumpling lifted the letter, and handed it to Merope.

Mopey passed it wordlessly to her brother, who fobbed it off on Smarmy, who handed it like a hot potato to Pudge.

Pudge took it in her shaking hands. There was a heavy red wax seal, and then the thick cream-colored paper crackled as she withdrew the missive, hand-written in a bold black script.

With all that had occurred, Pudge's courage failed. "Oh, I can't! You read it, Dumpy dear."

Taking the letter, Dumpling cleared his throat and read:

'Expect us for dinner tonight at 8 PM.

- Monsieurs Hero and Delamont.'

They all looked at one another in complete puzzlement.

"Who...?" wondered Smarmy.

"Eight o'clock," said Twitchy, "Why that's right about-"

The doorbell rang.

"Don't let them in," whispered Mope. "I'm afraid."

"They're here!" Eyes wide with panic, Twitchy clutched at his shirt. "What shall we do?"

"Stiff upper lip," said Dumpy, "and pray the ghosts don't put in an appearance."

-30-

(To be continued: What new danger awaits at the door?)


	2. Keeping Up Appearances

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C2: Keeping Up Appearances)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: Who are these two mysterious strangers and what do they want?

A/N: Any character sketches can be viewed on my blogspot.

_Idiot Beloved_ takes place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. This tale occurs after both _Sidekick_ and _Are You Loathsome Tonight._

The Tarukane manor has fascinated me since its first appearance, and I've often wondered what became of it. Here, we find out.

Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C2: Keeping Up Appearances)

by

Kenshin

"They mustn't discover our secrets!"

It was still raining cats and dogs when the Puffington's mysterious guests arrived.

_They mustn't discover our secrets!_ thought Pudge, wringing her hands. _But after all, propriety insists we let them in. If only we can keep up appearances!_

The door creaked open; a flash of lightning lit the great stone-flagged hall, throwing two silhouettes into stark relief.

Huddled with the rest of the family at the far end of the hall, Pudge half-hoped that the butler, Thrustlewood, would refuse them admission. But he dutifully ushered the pair inside.

The family's brief occupancy had revealed the painful truth: they were not used to such fripperies. Pudge always felt the urge to answer the door herself.

_Well, we shall have to make the best of things._ Bidding the strangers a nervous 'Good evening,' Pudge steeled herself.

They were young men, certainly far younger than herself or Dumpy, but older than the children. Monsiuer Delamont was tallish, and once he had allowed Thrustlewood to take his trench coat and trilby hat, he shook out a mane of extravagant russet hair that had managed to stay dry in spite of the weather.

Pudge wondered who this M. Delamont was, and what he did for a living. He seemed quite cool and self-possesed, with fine fair skin and glittering emerald eyes that first made an inventory of the hall, then settled upon her.

Whereupon Pudge glanced at Mope and began matchmaking.

But Monsieur Hero-what sort of personage was this? Shorter in stature than his companion, M. Hero was un-nerving indeed with that intense crimson gaze, so direct it bordered on discourtesy.

M. Hero's head was bare, as though he scorned any concession to the weather, though judging by the state of his unruly black hair, he should have at least taken an umbrella. In a black leather jacket, black jeans and black sweater, he presented a figure almost like a mobster.

Pudge had heard of the Yakuza, the Japanese version of American gangsters, and wondered uneasily whether this French gentleman might belong to that group. But then her head got muddled with Americans, French, and Japanese what-nots, and she gave up trying to pigeonhole him, because both strangers spoke a mix of French and English and Japanese at will.

In a somewhat breathy contralto voice, and a thick accent that came and went, M. Delamont introduced himself simply as a botanist. To M. Hero he gave no introduction other than his name, which, to Pudge's surprise, was pronounced closer to _Air-oh_ than _Hee-row._ No doubt a Frenchified version of the word.

Monseiur Hero's deep languid voice made him sound indifferent, even bored-when he spoke at all, which was seldom.

Thrustlewood-the sole remaining servant-was sent to make things presentable in the dining room. The family and callers waited in the drawing room.

Seizing the delay as an opportunity to dress for the occasion, Pudge excused herself. She dashed to the foot of the great stairwell, but there her courage failed her.

The yawning black cavern of the second-floor landing loomed and threatened, and she would have to go it alone. It was all too much. Still, there was an electric torch on a nearby table. Gripping this like a weapon, Pudge hurried up the forbidding stairs to change into dinner clothes befitting a hostess of this grand manor.

0-0-0-0-0

With hair and face done as best she could by candle-light, Pudge stepped out of the master bathroom, still clutching the torch. Yes, it was wonderful to have such a surplus of bathrooms, but what good were they without light to see?

Oh, it probably just wanted a single phone call to set things right again. But to whom? And with the lines down?

They didn't really know _how_ to be rich. There ought to be a school for teaching that sort of thing, really there ought.

Still it gave Pudge a nice warm feeling to be able to offer two mysterous foreigners shelter from the storm, even if that shelter did not at the moment include electrical service.

Hurriedly squeezing herself into a heavy satin gown, Pudge set down the torch and fumbled with the velvet jewel case.

Although the appearance of the strangers had put her off at first, Pudge decided that she was glad for the intrusion, for none of them seemed to have anything to do now.

Smarm would of course find that quite normal, but as for Pudge, rather than changing for dinner she should have preferred bustling about with hot soup and offering towels to her rain-soaked guests.

And with the staff gone, she might have to do just that.

She quailed, one eye on the window. That sound just then. Was it a rumble of thunder of the groaning of a ghost?

The jewel case refused to open to her shaking hands.

If the maidservants were still here, one of them would open it for her. And helped her to dress.

Pudge took a calming breath. Why had such well-trained servants left the premises? Were the family really such backwater clods that the servants were offended?

_Face it,_ she thought, _it was much worse than just that._

Funny how things worked. Having a staff meant no marketing nor cooking for the lady of the house. Such a luxurious life she'd always envied on the telly, but now she missed those simple tasks. It was Dumpy won the Sweeps, but Pudge had charge of the family finances, and that had not changed.

Maybe she could get back to some cooking...

_Oh, but here we are in the middle of nowhere! How to even get to a store?_

At least the Japanese drove on the correct side of the road! Poor Dumpy. When he'd been driving the lorry he'd known what to do with himself. And never complained, the lamb. _Puts food on the table after all,_ he was fond of saying.

Pudge managed to pry open the velvet jewel case at last, but even as her fingers closed on empty air, she gave a wan smile. The Tredmonton Tiara was no longer there, of course. Vanished, along with the staff. Reaching for it had been pure force of habit, for she had worn it every night since their arrival. At least, until-

Worrisome though the accursed tiara's absence might be, it was the least of their troubles.

Lightning cast a temporary brilliance into the room. Thunder rather than unearthly groans shook the walls.

She could put on a cocktail ring for the occasion, but rings didn't really suit her stubby fingers, and when Dumpy dear suggested a bigger, flashier wedding ring, she'd insisted on keeping her original, modest one.

_Guests,_ she reminded herself. The first of many, it was to be hoped. She would find out what the strangers wanted. And then, she told herself firmly, the family would settle into this house and everything would go back to normal. Maybe she would even grow a lovely rose garden.

Hastily selecting a ring, Pudge once again took up the torch and descended the lightless stairs, praying with each step that she would not feel the icy hands of a ghost round her neck.

-30-

(To be continued: A rose sometimes goes by another name)


	3. Dinner Is Served

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C3: Dinner Is Served)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: The reader needn't be Sherlock Holmes to deduce the identities of Hero and Delamont.

A/N: _Idiot Beloved_ takes place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. This story occurs a few months after the events in _Are You Loathsome Tonight?_

Thanks for your reviews and Likes!

Will the ghosts appear during dinner?

Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C3: Dinner Is Served)

by

Kenshin

Arriving downstairs unmolested by ghosts, Pudge went to the drawing room, making what she hoped was a grand entrance.

Only the strangers glanced up at her. Monsieur Delamont sat by the fire; Monsieur Hero stood silent and sullen by the mantelpiece. Delamont rose when Pudge entered the room.

Of course Smarm hadn't bothered changing for dinner, nor Twitchy, and poor dear Mopey never paid attention to clothes.

Still, Pudge told herself, it was correct for them to entertain the guests whilst the hostess was changing.

"Did you know," drawled Smarmy, "that Monseuir Delamont is a botanist?"

Bypassing the fact that M. Delamont had indeed already introduced himself as such, Pudge turned her face up to his.

"A botanist, how fascinating! Are you fond of roses?"

"Indeed." Delamont's eyes gleamed emerald-ish, reminding Pudge of the main jewel in the missing Tredmonton Tiara. "I hear they grow outstanding roses in England."

"We were never able to establish a garden in our former residence," said Pudge, hoping her words carried the right sort of tone. "But I would very much like to take it up now."

Delamont nodded in a courtly manner. "Perhaps we can discuss varieties suited to this climate."

Hero said nothing by way of small talk, but stared intently at the walls. _How peculiar,_ thought Pudge. _Is he perhaps an architect or dealer in antiquities?_ For the furnishings in the drawing room were old, and of fine make and could well interest an antiquarian. Yet she could not bring herself to ask.

Besides, at that moment Thrustlewood arrived to announce dinner. They filed into the candle-lit dining room and settled about the long mahogany table.

"Oh dear," said Pudge, "we seem to be an odd number."

Dumpy sat at the head of the table, Pudge at its foot, Smarm and Twitch to her left. But Mopey was sandwiched between the two Frenchmen. It was all very assymetrical and probably incorrect.

"Well, we can hardly ask Thrustlewood to sit with us, can we?" said Smarmy, tucking the napkin under his chin.

Twitchy giggled. "Who'd serve the meal after all?"

"He's right _here_, you know," hissed Pudge, as Thrustlewood began serving the soup course.

Any last-minute, makeshift meal was bound to be catch-as-catch-can, but the meat course would be good; even before they knew guests were coming, Pudge had ordered a nice roast of beef, and she'd left the rest up to Thrustlewood's ingenuity.

As for the butler, he cut such a distinguished figure! A tall old man with gray moustaches, he was spare of frame and movement, his speech every bit as refined as that of Anthony Hopkins in _Remains of the Day,_ one of her favorite films.

The soup course proved to be that salty brine they called miso, which was thin and had a suspiciously foreign taste.

Smarmy slurped it, Dumpling held his spoon wrong, Twitchy took one sip and pulled a face. Mopey did not eat at all.

As for the guests-

M. Delamont was splendidly turned out in an understated gray jacket, and an old-school tie highlighted his gleaming linen. The effect was rather spoiled by a missing cuff-link that allowed one cuff to gape open in a sloppy manner that belied the rest of his attire. What was its meaning? Some new fashion on the Continent? A secret code among botanists? Yet he proved charming, as befitted a person of his fame.

Dumpy dear wondered aloud whether the famed botanist had written any books, while Twitchy asked whether he had a floral shop, and Smarmy all but pointed at the missing cuff link and asked how much money he made, which M. Delamont sensibly declined to answer. Really, the family's behavior-!

_Just like at home,_ thought Pudge, then scolded herself for failing to remember that this spooky old manor was home.

M. Delamont did not appear to have been offended. Rather, he appeared to be studying them all, as though they were particularly interesting plant specimens. "And what do you do, Mr. er, Smarmy?" M. Delamont turned his thoughtful gaze on Pudge's brother.

"I ponder the meaning of life," Smarmy replied.

"Where?"

"Wherever I happen to be."

"Lazy he is," muttered Dumpy.

"Dear Smarm always says he is too sensitive for mere labor," Pudge put in, cringing a bit, because what Dumpy said was true.

"I see," mused Delamont. "And you, Mr. -Twitch?"

"Me?" Twitchy paused, a buttered roll jammed in his mouth. "I'm only 17, aren't I? What would I be doing with a job?"

"Heaven knows," said M. Delamont, nibbling at a breadstick.

Monsieur Hero proved to be a man of few words but prodigious appetite, munching placidly away at everything placed before him. Up close, he was younger-looking than Pudge had originally thought, with great serious eyes gleaming in a rather elfin face. He wore a Rosary round his neck; the shifting candle-light caused the figure on its Crucifix to seemingly writhe in agony.

The effect made Pudge more nervous than before.

"One of those Roman fish-eaters, I see," stage-whispered Twitchy, and to cover up his rudeness, Pudge blared, "More wine?"

M. Hero did not reply, but instead regarded her steadily until she found her face getting warm. The way he stared, unblinking, at each of them in turn-especially dear defenseless Mope-_Don't tell me he has designs on her! She's an heiress now, of course, but that's the French for you._

Who was this Hero? The charming M. Delamont's assistant? But then why was he not digging in the dirt rather than his employer? Odd that Twitchy or Smarmy hadn't flat-out asked him, but there was something about Hero's demeanor that quelled any potential inquiries. It was one mystery atop another, and too much for Pudge's liking.

Once the soup had been cleared off, Thrustlewood brought the fish course. Too bad it was that dreadful stuff they called sushi, which seemed to consist of bits of bait wrapped round seaweed and day-old rice. Pudge would never get used to it.

"Sometimes," blurted Dumpy, "I'd just as leave make do with some nice baked beans on toast."

"Hear, hear," said Twitchy.

"And none of this loathsome raw fish," put in Smarmy.

"I like raw fish." Monseiur Hero made a rare comment. "You going to finish yours?"

As one, the Puffingtons slid their plates over to M. Hero-except Mopey, whose white hands clutched the tablecloth.

M. Hero made lavish use of the green paste they served alongside the fish. Its bite was fiercer than the worst mustard, making one feel like one's very ears were afire (as Pudge had discovered to her dismay), yet Hero was gobbing it on his raw fish with no apparent ill effects.

They all stared in shock, except M. Delamont, who must be used to his companion's peculiar ways. "He's inhuman," whispered Twitchy.

"You don't know the half of it," said Hero.

Monseiur Delamont turned to Mopey and inquired, "Which do you prefer, Miss Merope-sushi or sashimi?"

Mopey gave no reply, toying with her wingelass instead.

Noticing Mopey's full plate, M. Hero murmured, "I'll relieve you of that as well." As he reached for it, his Rosary brushed her hand.

Mopey gave a squeak and shied away.

_They're both after her!_ thought Pudge-_they both have designs on her! But she's showing a clear preference for M. Delamont. That's the spirit!_

"A servant really should have passed the plate," Pudge apologized. "But we seem to be a bit short-handed tonight."

"Such a bother," said Dumpy. "Man's home should be his castle; instead it's a cave, without proper staff-"

"Yes," said Delamont. "I was wondering at the lack."

"Oh be honest," Smarmy snapped. "They ditched us."

"Except Thrustlewood," amended Twitchy, as the butler rolled in the meat course on a silver cart.

As Thrustlewood served the beef, M. Delamont inquired of Dumpling, "Am I to understand the help ran out?"

"One by one," replied Dumpy, digging into his roast.

"In the night, mind you!" added Twitchy, around a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding.

"Every morning we'd awaken to one less staff member," Smarmy said, tucking into his beef.

M. Hero put in another rare word. "It's a long way to the bus stop. Especially on foot."

"They must have been desperate." M. Delamont shot Hero a sharp glance.

Hero nodded. "Good jobs don't grow on trees."

"I wonder-" M. Delamont rotated his wineglass, observing the liquid, then turned his attention to Pudge. "That's a lovely outfit you're wearing."

Pudge blushed. "Thank you kindly." She really was more comfortable in tweeds and such, and now felt like a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. Still, it was nice of him to say something.

"But where is the tiara to go with it?" he continued.

Twitchy choked on his wine. Smarmy spilt the gravy.

"In Smarmy's pocket, most like," muttered Dumpling.

The table being as vast as a playing field, Pudge was unable to reach Dumpy to deliver a corrective kick.

"How did you know about the tiara?" she whispered. _Have they designs on all of us, and not of a romantic nature? Are they thieves in the night?_ She caught at her throat.

"Excellent beef," said M. Delamont, taking a few bites, then setting down his knife and fork.

M. Hero noticed. "You going to finish that?"

Wordlessly M. Delamont slid his plate across to M. Hero.

They completed the meat course with only the rumble of thunder and the clink of cutlery for accompaniment. But Pudge was thinking furiously: _Strange, them showing up just like that, with no stated purpose. Well, after dinner, I shall find out!_

When the plates were cleared away Pudge rose and announced they would take coffee in the drawing room.

Merope hung back, but Pudge gently steered her along.

The drawing room was less sheltered than the dining room, facing into the teeth of the weather as it were, and the great tall windows revealed that the storm had, if anything, doubled in intensity, shaking the house with thunder and clawing the walls with lightning.

But there was hot tea on the sideboard, and brandy, and all manner of cakes and fancies and hard sauce for cheer.

As for the fire, it was weak and smoking no matter how many logs they piled on, leaving them with little illumination. Dumply dear went to the grand piano, on which rested a silver candelabra. He lit its tapers, then moved the makeshift lighting to the coffee table.

Thrustlewood brought the silver coffee service, and Pudge helped everyone to a bit of this and a dab of that. M. Hero proved as much a fan of pudding as he was of raw fish.

"Did you know," said M. Delamont, balancing a plate of petits fours on his knee, "that the word 'drawing' room was originally shortened from 'withdrawing' room? Here the guests would withdraw from dinner for coffee, brandy, a smoke."

"How very interesting," yawned Smarmy, helping himself to a second slab of fruitcake.

"Is everyone comfy?" said Pudge loudly.

"As comfy as we can get with the cold, the damp, the dark, the storm, and no staff," muttered Twitchy.

"Indeed," said M. Delamont. "There's more going on in this house than meets the eye."

Pudge felt the cake stick in her throat.

"More than merely the cold," he went on, "more than the damp, the missing staff, the missing tiara-"

"-Don't forget the dead phone lines," put in Twitchy.

"-and the no power," said Dumpy.

Monseiur Hero spoke. "They all add up to one thing and one thing only."

Delamont added, "One of you-" here he paused to allow the crash of thunder and the crack of lightning-"one of you has been possessed!"

A great gust of wind blasted the room. The candles blew out, plunging them into darkness. Someone screamed. Pudge fainted straight away.

-30-

(To be continued: Who harbors the otherworldy entity?)


	4. Darkness Falls

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C4: Darkness Falls)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: Though Pudge has already fainted, there's worse to come.

A/N: My story arcs: _Idiot Beloved_ takes place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. This story occurs some months after _Sidekick_ (of the Cowboy Trilogy) and _Are You Loathsome Tonight._

I appreciate your reviews and thank you for reading this tale!

Demons and blackouts...what next?

Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C4: Darkness Falls)

by

Kenshin

Coming to her senses, Pudge was surprised to be still seated in the easy chair and not flat out on the cold flagstone floor. To her left and right, Dumpy dear and Smarmy fanned her with napkins. Someone had re-lit the candles.

"Just exactly what do you mean by 'possessed?'" Dumpy demanded.

"All in due time, Sir," said Delamont. "But now-"

"You know," said Twitchy, "I thought at first these blokes might be from the power company-"

"Yes," interrupted Smarmy, "but what would a botanist have to do with-"

"Please," groaned Pudge. The chattering stopped. "Is everyone all right?" Sitting up, she made sure of it as best she could in the dim flickering candle-light.

Dumpling and Smarmy seemed as usual. Merope paced back and forth, wringing her hands. Twitchy was... twitching.

Dumpy handed Pudge a glass of brandy. She sipped, felt it burn its way down her throat, and its warmth revived her somewhat. The set the glass down. "I knew there were ghosts," she said unhappily.

"All that clanking and moaning," agreed Dumpy.

"Not ghosts," corrected M. Delamont. "Demons."

Pudge almost fainted again.

"Demons?" squeaked Twitchy.

Smarmy pointed at Monsieur Hero, who had not moved a finger nor blinked an eyelid during the announcement. "That bloke wearing the Crucifix-maybe he can perform an exorcism."

"It's not _that_ kind of demon," Delamont said. "It has genuine physical form-a body of its own."

Smarmy's brow puckered. "But then how can it possess-"

"Nor am I authorized to perform true exorcisms," Hero said.

"Just what are you authorized to do?" asked Dumpy.

Smarmy gave Hero a severe look. "Yes, why are you here?"

"Me?" Hero laughed. "I'm the muscle."

"He's the muscle?" An incredulous Twitchy balled his slender fists. "Why I could take him on with one hand."

Monsieur Delamont smiled dryly. "Which, should you be fool enough to try, is all that would be left of you."

"Oh, come on," said Hero. "I'd leave both hands."

Delamont gave a discreet cough that claimed their attention. "If we could concentrate on the matter?"

Pudge didn't know what to think. First ghosts, now demons? "You mean the tiara...?"

"Bet you anything Smarmy took the tiara," muttered Dumpy. "Always up to something, so long as it's not honest work."

"I'd take that bet," said Twitchy. "Double or nothing?"

Smarmy's moustache twitched in agitation. "I'll thank you to keep the insults to yourself!"

"Now, now," said Pudge nervously, trying to keep an eye on Dumpy and Smarmy, one on her increasingly-agitated daughter, and another on the strangers, which left her with one eye too few. "I'm sure Monsieur Delamont is just having us on."

"This is no joke," said Delamont severely. "We are dealing with a demonic possession."

Now Dumpy reached for the brandy snifter. "Surely not!"

"Surely." M. Delamont was as cool as a cucumber. "And I know which of you has been possessed."

Dumpy took a gulp of brandy. "Smarmy, most like."

"Me?" retorted Smarmy. "What about you?"

"No," said Delamont. "Neither one."

Pudge put a hand to her heart and looked at each family member in turn: Dear stolid Dumpy, evasive Smarmy, agitated Merope, unhappy Twitchy. No, it couldn't be. It was just too fantastical! "Who then?"

"The girl," said M. Hero. "Merope."

With a low moan, Pudge squeezed her eyes shut.

"Demon?" Dumpy scowled. "My Mopey a demon? Preposterous!"

"Enough talk." Hero flung away his jacket and reached behind his back. Quick as lightning, he drew a sword, an actual sword, ringing and flashing.

"Where's he been keeping that?" wondered Smarmy.

Hero did not deign to reply. Sword in hand, he advanced on defenseless little Mope.

"No!" Pudge leapt to her feet.

Mopey screamed as well. Wild-eyed, she whirled on Pudge. "Mother! Make him go away!"

Pudge stopped in her tracks. _Mother? When did Mopey dear start calling me 'Mother' and not 'Mum?'_

M. Delamont put in a word. "Hie-er, Hero-we must never forget that there's a young lady wrapped around that demon."

"Who's forgetting?" Hero swung the sword in a whistling arc.

"See here-!" Frightened but brave nonetheless, Dumpy flung himself in front of his daughter, arms outstretched. "Stop this at once! Demon? My little Mope? You're quite mad!"

Merope wailed piteously, "Mother, make them stop! Send them away! If you love me, send them away!"

"If you want your daughter back-" M. Hero advanced, his sword glittering in the candle-light. "-don't."

M. Delamont warned, "Hero-"

"Oh, all right." Hero smacked his sword back in its sheath, and from his pocket drew instead a small plastic bottle, holding it up for inspection. "Here. Holy Water. See?"

But oddly enough, the sight of the bottle frightened Mopey even more than the sword. Her eyes bulged with terror. "No!" Whirling, she sprinted for the door, but M. Delamont was cat-quick. He caught her, and pinned her arms to her sides. Merope bellowed in a deep voice, "Let go, you bastard!"

"Is this your daughter, Madam?" Still holding Merope, Delamont turned to Pudge. "Is it?"

Pudge wrung her hands. "Dumpy, dear, if it's just water..."

Dumpy wore his resolute look again. "Let me try it first."

Mopey shrieked a number of most unladylike words.

Hero commanded, "Put out your hand." When Dumpy did so, Hero sprayed his hand with droplets of the water.

Dumpy sniffed at it. Tasted it. "Water all right."

Still holding the struggling girl, M. Delamont muscled her over to a chair. "No harm will be done to her," he promised.

"Very well," growled Dumpling, "if it's only water you may proceed. But if you hurt her by God I'll-!"

Hero brandished the little plastic bottle, a fiendish grin twisting his face. "Here comes the Holy Water," he said to Merope, and Mope, dear shy quiet little Mope, snarled and struggled, wrenching her body this way and that.

Pudge clasped her hands in silent prayer.

While Delamont restrained the girl, Hero sprayed her face with the Holy Water.

Mopey shrieked. "Ahh, it burns, it burns!"

"But it didn't hurt me a bit," said Dumpy.

"Of course not," said Hero. "And it's not hurting _her._"

_Then why is Mopey acting like it is?_ wondered Pudge. "I don't understand," she said. "You can see she's in pain!"

"Not Merope," insisted Hero.

"Stop them, STOP THEM!" The voice that emerged from Pudge's daughter was not Mopey's. Most decidedly not. It was dark and smoky and slimy, as opposed to Merope's meek little whisper.

Hero treated her to a second spray. Merope's eyes rolled up, until only the whites showed. Her mouth hung open, and she gave a low, shuddering bellow like an ox.

"I'm going to be sick," vowed Twitchy, and then was true to his word right on the flagstones.

Her stomach roiling, Pudge thought she might join him. For _something_ was emerging from dear Merope's ear.

_That is not my baby girl! Oh Heaven help us!_

A bubble of nasty brown substance bulged from the girl's ear, almost a blob of earwax. But to Pudge's horror, the blob kept emerging, inch by loathsome inch with a vile squelching sound. Pencil-thin, stretching like molasses taffy, it oozed out until it was quite three feet long.

Dangling obscenely from Mopey's ear, it manifested a head at its farther end, resembling in part some nightmarish garden slug, its wicked little eyes on stalks turning, peering.

"This can't be happening," said Dumpy.

"It's a monster!" cried Smarmy.

"Kill it!" Dumpy begged. "Save my girl!"

"That we will." M. Delamont released Mopey.

Rather than trying to run, Merope rose, stiffly, awkwardly, like a marionette. The sluglike thing now hung almost to the floor, when suddenly it parted company with the girl's ear and fell with a sticky thump.

Merope's eyes drifted shut. She went limp as a rag doll, but Smarmy rushed up and caught her. He maneuvered her onto the sofa, and Pudge gathered her up, patting her icy hands.

Tense, silent, Delamont and Hero watched the creature.

The slug-creature coiled snake-like on the floor, and lifted its head to survey them. "Curse your rotten souls!" It flicked its un-nerving glance around the room at the hanging draperies and tapestries, the desk and grand piano, the heavy sideboard. "Think you have me? Think again. You are all dead, dead, DEAD!"

Then, in an eyeblink, it squirmed for the wall.

"Stop it," pleaded Dumpy, "Don't let it escape!"

The monster paid no heed. It gained its objective. The wall hangings twitched once, and it was lost to sight.

"I was afraid of this," said Hero.

-30-

(To be continued: Where will the monster strike next?)


	5. Murder Most Foul

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C5: Murder Most Foul)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: The _youkai_ has been ejected, but still lurks among them.

A/N: Any character sketches can be viewed on my blogspot.

_Idiot Beloved_ takes place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. This tale occurs years later, after The Cowboy Trilogy.

There's a monster on the loose!

Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C5: Murder Most Foul)

by

Kenshin

In the leaping candle-light, chaos held court.

"Remain calm," instructed Monsieur Delamont. But while Pudge strove to tend Mopey, the others scampered about the room, shouting insructions to all and sundry regarding the escaped monster, adding to the general sense of panic.

Poor little Mope, lying on the sofa like a broken doll! Pudge patted her icy hands and face, but Mopey made no response.

Keep still," snarled Monsieur Hero, and the screeching and running stopped at once.

In that silence, Hero and Delamont stood back-to-back, turning, turning, seeking the creature.

But the slimy brown monster was nowhere in sight.

Oh, it was terrifying, sitting in the near-dark, knowing it was on the loose!

Where had it gone? Seeking a new host from among them? Or perhaps biding its time, knowing it was out of reach, waiting in a crack in the wall, waiting until they had all gone to sleep, and then striking at will?

Pointing to a corner, Twitchy cried, "I see it!"

"I see it too," Dumpling echoed. "There by the Chinese screen. Don't let it escape!"

Hero and Delamont went after it. But the monster refused to keep still. Now by the screen, now whipping across the floor, zigging and zagging, ducking behind hangings, beneath furniture.

Pudge tried to shield Merope as best she could, but the demon in its desperate flight brushed her ankle. She screamed.

M. Delamont leapt after the beast, while Hero sprang to guard Pudge and Mopey with his sword. Pudge was never so glad in her life to see a dangerous weapon.

Smarmy mopped his brow. "What on earth is that thing!?"

"Nothing on earth," said M. Delamont grimly, holding out a hand. "Keep back, all of you!"

"But it's getting away!" Twitchy scuttled about like a crab.

"Keep together," warned Delamont. "Don't make me sic Hi-er, Hero on you again."

Obeying at once, the family huddled around the unconscious Merope, with Monsieur Hero on guard.

It was so dark, so confusing. The fleeing monster's hide nevertheless caught what meager light there was. Flashes of lightning further revealed its horrid disfigured-serpent form.

With Delamont tracking its path, the monster spoke even as it evaded: "I meant no harm! I only needed someplace warm to stay. That's the only reason, I swear. It's so cold here!"

Hearing the creature's pleas, Pudge sat up a little straighter. _It sounds... lost,_ she thought.

"Don't worry," purred Hero. "Where you're going it's hot enough."

"Please!" The creature twisted on the floor, seeking an exit, but on its one hand was Delamont, and the other, Hero. "I'm just a poor simple creature. What do you want of me?"

Hero laughed. "You know the answer."

"No," bawled the monster, "I don't know anything, I'm innocent of all wrongdoing, take pity on me!"

"As you did the girl?" snarled Hero. The creature wailed in misery. And indeed the pathetic aspect of its voice did move Pudge to pity. "Surely," she began, "if you just capture it, if you just set it free in the woods?..."

But Monsieurs Hero and Delamont were relentless. Leaving his post by the couch, Hero joined Delamont, surrounding the snakelike thing.

"Yes, that's it," the creature wailed, "Listen to her! I promise to leave and never bother anyone again!" It turned its peculiar, stalklike eyes to Pudge, and she felt a chill run up her spine. "You don't know these men. They are thieves, killers! Please, kind lady, don't let these gangsters kill me."

"Turn a deaf ear to its pleas." Delamont did not take his eyes off the creature. "That's how it got hold of Merope."

The creature writhed on the floor. "Don't listen to them, they're after your fortune, they're notorious thugs and killers, I tell you, and you'll be next!"

"Enough." M. Delamont plucked a rosebud from his hair, which unfurled like a magician's trick, _stretching_, as the creature had done before, when emerging from Mopey's ear. However the rose turned into not a serpent, but a sort of thorny whip, right before Pudge's astonished eyes.

Hero swung his bright sword. The monster's voice rose in a piteous wail: "Spare me!"

Delamont's eyes turned dangerous. "As you spared Merope?"

Instantly a change came over it. The monster abandoned its pathetic tone, bellowing curses. Blinking as though wakening from a deep sleep, Pudge once again could see it for what it was, and she shuddered in loathing.

"Get in my way will you? Damn you both! See how you cope with _this!_" And with a chilling shriek, the monster launched itself straight at Merope.

Pudge screamed.

Quick as an eyeblink, the two foreigners brought their weaponry to bear. Flashing sword and slashing whip struck out at the monster with such ferocity that Pudge could not track their movement. She only realized what had happened when she saw the monster on the flagstones before them, chopped to bits.

They had caught it in mid-leap! Yet the severed bits remained writhing on the floor.

Smarmy covered his eyes; Twitchy his mouth, but Pudge could not look away.

It was not until Hero reached into his pocket, drew out a handful of white crystals, and scattered them upon the dismembered creature, that its movement ceased.

Where the crystals struck the chunks, they bubbled into a rotten-egg-reeking slime that made them all gag.

The slime smoked briefly, then vanished, and at once, the air was cleansed of its foul odor.

The sword slid back into its sheath. The thorn-whip shrank away into a mere rosebud.

Twitchy and Smarm both hid their eyes, but Pudge recovered quickly, trying to revive her poor baby girl.

"How did you _do_ that to the monster?" Dumpy said.

"Holy Salt." Hero knelt to inspect the flagstones.

"Like you'd use on a garden slug," explained M. Delamont, "only high-powered, especially for _youkai._"

Dumpy peered at the flagstones. "_Youkai?_"

Then wonder of wonders Mopey tried to sit up, looking about her in a dazed manner. Faintly, she inquired, "What's happened?"

Pudge's eyes filled with happy tears. This was her daughter's own dear whispery voice back for real.

"Oh, Mum." Mopey put a hand to her head. "I feel awful."

"There, there, you poor lamb!" Pudge dabbed her daughter's brow. "Oh, this barbaric country!"

Thrustlewood made an appearance. "More brandy, please," Dumpy directed, "and hot tea."

Thrustlewood hurriedly supplied the needed items, but Merope seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, even with generous amounts of tea and brandy, leaving Pudge in an agony of worry.

"It was my little Merope who caused all of this?" she wondered aloud. "The lights, the rain, the chill, the groanings in the night?"

Hero shrugged. "Maybe not the rain."

"And not Merope herself," added Delamont, "but rather the creature controlling her. But first..." Delamont produced from an inner pocket a small vial of golden liquid, which he uncorked and brought to Merope's lips.

"Not to worry," he said, as both Pudge and dumpy clucked in concern. "It's just a tonic to help bring her around."

And if it wasn't true! As soon as Mopey had swallowed the drink, roses again began to bloom in her cheeks. She glanced around, put a hand to her face in a gesture she had inherited from Pudge. "What's happened? Why am I?..."

"Hush, dear," soothed Pudge. "We'll sort this all out, you may be sure." She raised an eyebrow at the two guests.

Delamont favored them with a smile. "Merope has all of her mother's dreamy nature," he said, "but, I fear, little of her practical side."

"How do you know so much about us?" Smarmy demanded. "Seeing as we've only just met a couple of hours ago?"

"Didn't you realize?" M. Hero rolled his eyes. "He's the famous M. Delamont."

The famous M. Delamont bent over the girl, studying her for a moment. Then he straightened. "She'll recover quickly."

_I'll just bet,_ thought Pudge, noting the way her daughter gazed at the handsome botanist.

-30-

(To be continued: Another mystery remains!)


	6. The Butler Did It?

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C6: The Butler Did It?)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: The monster has been vanquished, but there is still the small matter of the missing tiara.

A/N: But what about the accursed tiara, and how indeed does Delamont know so much? Read on. And thanks!

Or did he...

Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C6: The Butler Did it?)

by

Kenshin

With Merope wrapped in a cozy blanket and on her way to recovery, and Thrustlewood handing out hot tea and brandy, the family settled down a bit. Even the chill seemed to be easing.

"You've done us a great service," said Pudge, and they all joined in, thanking the botanist and Hero: Pudge and Merope from the sofa, Dumpy and the others from chairs crowded round the coffee table, which held the rapidly-disappearing dregs of cake.

M. Delamont waved away their thanks as he made a leisurely circuit of the room.

M. Hero remained near the fireplace, his arms folded, looking almost asleep, but yet watchful.

Pudge thought they were so un-alike, Delamont charming and eloquent, Hero taciturn, almost sullen, yet they made a good team. _Rather like this family of mine,_ she reflected.

"Well?" said Dumpy. "How is it you two come to be here

tonight, and how did you know about-"

"-your daughter?" M. Delamont began. "It is elementary."

M. Hero snorted derisively.

"A-hem!" Clearing his throat, M. Delamont continued: "Merope was the only one among you both weak enough to allow the demonic possession in the first place-and the only one strong enough to resist killing you all."

"Killing?" Smarmy's eyes flew open in shock.

Merope gave a low moan and covered her face.

"Kill us? But why?" Pudge shivered. "What had we done?"

"Almost nothing," continued Delamont. "We will get to the 'almost' in due time."

Pudge said, "Oh, I wish we'd never won that Sweepstakes!"

"Remember those words," muttered Hero.

"You'll often find," added Delamont sagely, "that what you want isn't always the same as what you need."

Hero snorted again. "That girl has some backbone, though, or you'd all be dead, even if it was a low-level demon."

"D-d-emon?" Smarm's teeth were chattering.

"Here," M. Delamont said, "they're known as _youkai._"

M. Hero elaborated. "This particular type gains control by entering the ear canal, then taking up residence in the folds of the brain."

Mopey gave a mew of shock. "Horrible," whispered Pudge.

For being M. Hero, he was positively chatty now. "You saw what it looked like. Part solid, part liquid, it's able to settle a while inside the human body but-"

M. Delamont's eyes flashed angrily. "Your daughter was yet in grave danger-as were you all."

"My friend here has had experience with that kind of demon," said Hero. "He knew it could be driven from its victim by Holy Water, and then we could easily dispatch it."

"Yes," said Dumpy, shrewd now. "Too bad you couldn't have questioned it beforehand."

"He's right," Twitchy's gaze swept the room. "The tiara-"

"Hero, the game's afoot!" As M. Hero rolled his eyes, M. Delamont settled into an armchair, steepled his fingers, and began: "Of course, there is the curious incidence of the phone lines being cut-"

"Cut?" said Dumpy. "I had thought the storm knocked-"

"Cut," said Hero succinctly.

"As with a sword?" Smarmy flared. Hero merely chuckled.

"Not with a sword, but by someone of this household."

"Well, I suppose the butler did it!" cried Twitchy.

Thrustlewood did not even blink.

"He could have done," agreed Smarmy. "In books the butler always does it!"

"But if that's so," wondered Pudge, "and Thrustlewood had the tiara, why did he remain here?"

"Then doesn't that leave you, dear sister?" asked Smarmy.

Dumpy did not like that. "You keep my Pudge out of this. After all you're the one who's mad for money."

"And you, brother-in-law?" countered Smarmy. "You don't like it here, wanted to leave from day one!"

"How would stealing the tiara accomplish that?" Twitchy put in. "Besides, we searched-"

"Oh, stop it, please!" Pudge begged. "Stop it, all of you!"

M. Hero took a single step forward. "Enough," he said.

All fell silent.

"I'll continue then," said Delamont. He took their silence for assent. "First, the butler:

"Of course Thrustlewood didn't 'do it.' He has a long and sterling history of service to an aristocratic family, and when the last heir of that family died, Thrustlewood took his excellent references to work for an, er, employment agency."

Thrustlewood inclined his head. "Thank you, sir."

"Not at all." Leaving the comfort of his chair, M. Delamont prowled the room. He stopped, facing the fire.

"Now, the father:

"Mr. Puffington did not steal the tiara. Why would he? A working man, he despises freeloading, has always paid for what he gets, and this windfall of the sweepstakes, while seeming to be a boon, has been bothering him all along."

"It has been," admitted Dumpling, turning to Pudge. "And he's right, dearest. I didn't take the tiara."

"I never for a moment thought you did," Pudge said fondly.

M. Delamont plucked a box of tissues from a side table, then stopped in front of Pudge. "Now as for the mother:

"Poor Mrs. Puffington's been trying to keep up a brave front, but she's been missing her homeland, and on top of that, the storm and the arrival of two strange and threatening men has brought her close to the edge."

Delamont offered the box of tissues. Taking a tissue, Pudge dabbed her eyes.

"Mrs. Puffington hiding the tiara herself? Absurd. Her entire life has been one of striving to make her home a peaceful and harmonious place." Delamont stayed at her side while her sniffles subsided, then turned to Smarmy. "Now, the brother."

Smarmy set his brandy down with a clatter. "I know everyone thinks I stole it but I didn't!"

"Smarmy's right," said M. Delamont.

Dumpy rose, too. "How do you know that?"

"In due time, Mr. Puffington, in due time. Here we have a man too, er, _sensitive_ to work, who has finally landed in the gravy, so to speak. He can philosophize in great comfort to the end of his days. What reason would he have to put his newfound position in jeopardy?

"For in spite of his work-related allergies, Mr. Smarmy has behaved like a doting uncle toward his nephew and niece, advising Twitchy on the matter of, er, sporting events, encouraging Merope to continue with her love of watercolor painting."

Embarrassed by a compliment as he had never been by an insult, Smarmy went beet red.

Placing his hands behind his back, Delamont continued. "Finally, the son. How ironic it must have seemed when the father's sole venture into gambling yielded such a windfall, while the son-"

Twitchy gulped audibly.

"Of everyone in this room, young Twitchy had the best and most compelling reason to steal the tiara."

Twitchy's face turned paper-white. "You can't prove that!"

"He has no income, yet carried heavy gambling debts-"

"Oh, Twitchy," Pudge sighed. She had suspected as much.

"Fond as he may be of his kin," said Delamont, "Uncle's wagering advice isn't of the best caliber."

"That's no crime!" protested Twitchy.

"Perhaps not. But no wonder you have a case of nerves, for your creditors are the type who believe a broken kneecap or two works wonders as a gentle reminder."

"Twitchy dear?" Pudge repeated sadly.

Twitchy had the decency to hang his head.

"But why didn't you ask for the money when we won the 'stakes? Surely you must know we would have paid off the debts?"

Twitchy studied his shoes. "I never wanted you to know."

"Not a bad boy," Delamont continued, "not an altogether stupid boy, but it would be well for him to remember that Japan does regrettably contain its own brand of leg-breakers, who would not hesitate to demand that a debt be repaid."

Everyone's gaze inevitably fell upon M. Hero.

"Don't look at me," Hero said.

M. Delamont continued. "Now as for the daughter..."

Pudge's arm tightened around Mopey's shoulder.

"Poor gentle Merope." Delamont smiled upon her kindly. "She won't remember, but _she_ took the tiara."

The girl grasped her mother's hand. "Not my Mopey," protested Pudge. "Not ever!"

"Not under normal circumstances, I quite agree. A girl not given to care for outward appearances, shy and bookish, not that those are bad qualities... but she took it nonetheless."

"Why?" whispered Pudge, as Mopey too hung her head.

"The demon. Under its control, she took the Tredmonton Tiara. Merope was undoubtedly directed to hide the tiara behind a secret panel, where later, after the family had been disposed of, the prize could be recovered by the demon or its cronies."

Pudge noticed Mopey noticing M. Delamont, which warmed the cockles of her heart.

"Truly I don't remember." Mopey turned her face up to Delamont's. "It's like some sort of nightmare, all muddled up."

"That's to be expected," said M. Hero.

"And believe it or not," said Delamont, "it wasn't Hi-er, Hero from whom she shied away at the dinner table. It was his Rosary. Its touch would have burned the demon badly."

"How do you know all this?" Dumpy demanded.

M. Delamont took his seat again and steepled his hands. "Let me apologize for our deception."

Pudge felt the return of a slight chill. "Deception?"

"Yes, alas," said Delamont. "Deception. You see, we are not who we claimed to be."

"Who, then?" Dear Dumpling was resolute. "Out with it!"

Pudge feared some further trouble, some scheme or extortion, but was so exhausted she could hardly think straight.

Besides, M. Delamont was speaking again. Explaining that he had been sent by an insurance company to investigate the theft. This forced him to assume a false identity. His explanation was helped out here and there by M. Hero.

_Well then,_ she thought, _that's that. Delamont, Hero. Those are nicknames of a sort, too, if you think of it that way._

"Then you're not really a botanist," Pudge said a bit wistfully, thinking of roses.

Delamont inclined his head. "In a loose sense, I am. I do make a study of plants. For instance, the Rosa Rugosa-where we get those famous rose hips for tea-was native to Japan, introduced from this land to Europe in the 19th century. If you should decide to remain, I suggest growing Gekkyuden, or Palace of the Moon. It's known as LaMarque in-"

"Why yes!" Pudge exclaimed in delight. "An old variety, a climber. We have it in England."

"Well, there you are. They do very well in this climate."

During M. Delamont's discourse, the fire had gone out, and the candles had burned down to stubs. Pudge feared they would have to sit in the dark. But just as the first candle died, the lights came back on, flooding the drawing room with brightness.

"Our luck's turning at last, seems like," said Twitchy.

Merope put a hand to her face. "Oh, I must look a fright," she worried, but Pudge smiled; it was the first time in recent memory Mopey'd paid any heed to her appearance.

"You look fine," M. Delamont assured her, and she flushed with pleasure.

"My baby's back," murmured Pudge. "And nothing else matters. Oh, I don't know how to thank you!"

"I do," said M. Hero. Seating himself at the writing desk, he took from his jacket a cheque-book and black fountain pen.

Everyone apart from Merope got up and crowded around the desk. "What's this about?"

Monsieur Hero wrote in his cheque-book; he tore off a cheque and offered it to Dumpy, along with a set of keys.

"So you're the moneybags as well as the muscle, eh?" Smarmy winked at him.

"And I am not your new best friend," said Hero. "Keep that foremost in mind."

Dumpy squinted at the amount, hesitating, while Smarmy looked over his shoulder.

"Amount seems a bit low," said Smarmy.

"It's every penny I'm authorized to spend," said M. Hero. "And the motor home comes with it."

"Caravan," corrected Twitchy.

"The one you arrived in?" asked Merope.

Hero nodded. "The same."

"I don't know..." Dumpy screwed up his mouth.

"You'll get back the price of this house," said Hero. "Consider yourself lucky."

"But the Tredmonton Tiara," Pudge said. "Cursed or no, it did cost rather a lot..."

"The tiara has been recovered," said Delamont.

There were gasps of surprise all around, not counting Hero.

"It was the realtor who did it," added Hero.

"What?" Pudge looked at Hero and Delamont in shock.

"Indirectly, that is." said Delamont. "You asked before what you had done to merit the demonic attack, and I had replied, 'almost nothing.' Here then is the 'almost.'

"Miss Joan Beame, who sold you the manor, was an accomplice of a man who knew the former owner. He is a notorious creditor, looking to collect his money, like the legbreakers from whom Twitchy managed to hide. And Tarukane had numerous creditors, each a worse sort than the last."

"But how could they have known about us?" wondered Pudge.

"It's their business," said Delamont. "People like that pay attention to lottery and sweepstakes winners, and when you kindly stood your friends and neighbors to a round at the local pub, word of your good fortune spread like wildfire."

"And then she persuaded you to buy the tiara," Hero added. "There was no way it could be stolen from where it was stored in London. Security was too tight, so it had to be taken by a legitimate buyer-you."

"She did rather talk me into it," admitted Pudge.

"Miss Beame then contacted her minions here to await your arrival," said Delamont.

"But why?"

"For the tiara, of course, quite apart from the handsome commission she got for the manor's sale. Miss Beame had planned for her minion at the manor-the one we recently dispatched-to orchestrate the theft smoothly."

Hero said, "But no one counted on Merope's resistance."

"How was everything to be worked out?" said Dumpy.

"When the staff had gone," said Delamont, "courtesy of the demon's 'haunting,' you were to be run off as well. Failing that, killed."

"By God!" said Dumpy.

"Killed," echoed Pudge dully. "I suppose we've been lucky at that."

Smarmy ventured, "You said the tiara was recovered...?"

"A maid," said Delamont, "a girl of particular honesty, found the tiara on unpacking, and notified the employment agency. It was Merope, knowing the maid's character even from so brief an acquaintance, who defied the demon's attempt to secrete the tiara on the premises, and hid it in the girl's luggage."

"That tiara..." Pudge shivered. "It's unclean. I don't want it now."

"Then donate it to a museum," advised Delamont.

M. Hero rose. "We'll be waiting for you in the motor home."

"Caravan," corrected Twitchy weakly.

"Whatever."

"Do not linger over your packing," warned Delamont. "Simply throw together an overnight bag. The rest of your things will be sent on to you."

But Pudge was still trying to take it all in. "Whatever shall we do with a caravan that size?"

"That is up to you," Delamont said. "You may drive straight to the city, or another part of the countryside and camp out, or put it up for sale and fly back to England."

"We just CAME from a one-room flat," protested Smarmy.

"Leave all this?" Pudge wondered aloud. _But only last hour, you had been crazy to get out of here._ Yet it might be fun at that, motoring about Japan in grand fashion, then returning to their homeland to settle into something a bit more modest.

_What matters is that we'll be together._

"But look here," said Smarmy, "now that we know it's one of those, what do you call them..."

"_Youkai,_" supplied Delamont.

"...right, one of those," continued Smarm, "perhaps we could charge admission, you know, a haunted manor sort of thing."

M. Hero fixed him with a stare of ice-pick intensity, which made Smarmy backpedal a step or two. "You're meddling in things you don't understand." The calm, quiet voice only added menace to his words. "If you knew what took place in this house it would freeze your bones."

Delamont agreed. "I'd do as he says."

Pudge thought: it was an unsuitable grandeur she had wanted, when what they really needed was just a bit more privacy and space. This isolated house of sorrows was the last place they belonged. "As long as my baby girl's all right," said Pudge, "I know we shall all be happy."

Hero nodded. "Meet us at the motor home in twenty minutes."

Being a sensible sort, Dumpy took the check and keys.

After Thrustlewood saw the two men to the door, Pudge went to oversee the packing up.

-30-

(To be concluded: Hero and Delamont head for home.)


	7. Going Mobile

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C7: Going Mobile)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: Hero and Delamont, revealed.

A/N: I've always been intrigued with the idea of Kurama taking a Sherlock Holmes turn, and this is the result. While it was imperative to tell most of the story from Pudge's viewpoint, the wise reader will immediately 'make' the identities of her two mystery visitors.

I appreciate your reviews and thank you for reading this tale!

"I never get your limits, Hiei!"

Elementary, My Dear Hiei (C7: Going Mobile)

by

Kenshin

The rain had stopped, and the night turned clear and cold.

Departing the Tarukane manor, Hiei and Kurama tramped through the trees. Hiei's black leather jacket creaked as they walked, a counterpoint to the rustle of Kurama's trench coat.

"Insurance investigator," said Hiei. "Good one."

"I try."

"Ever thought of getting your hands on the tiara?"

Kurama pulled a face. "With that curse attached?" He took a moment to savor their victory. Of course the family could not know of Hiei's true employers; the Agency was so cloaked and daggered that officially, it didn't even exist. And while Hiei, and not he, was their official operative, Hiei often called on Kurama to consult in stubborn cases such as this.

But there remained one mystery yet to solve.

"Hero?" Kurama inquired, with a lift of his eyebrow. "Monsieur _Hero?_"

"Monsieur _Delamont?_" countered Hiei.

"Delamont," Kurama confirmed, as they approached the motor home in all its sand-and-silver elegance.

Hiei seemed pleased with himself; there was a spring in his step, and Kurama inquired after the source of his cheer.

"Closed the case in a matter of hours," Hiei replied, "Got fed. Didn't break my sword. Neither of us has a scratch."

"Good points," Kurama conceded, recalling the curious case of the Taiyou Lake House last autumn, when they had nearly been torn to shreds by a horde of venomous jaki.

Hiei strolled around the back of the Silver Sands to un-hitch the Toyota Land Cruiser they had towed along with it. "Besides, nothing beats watching you dig a hole in the rain."

"Glad to be of assistance."

"Next time don't fasten your cufflinks outdoors."

"You could have located it with your Jagan."

"A waste of its power."

"Hero?" Kurama asked, for the second time.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? Can't figure it out?"

"Enlighten me."

"Hero," Hiei elaborated. "A workmanlike brand of fountain pen, which I just used to write the check, as opposed to your pricey Eurobrand, the choice of overprivileged posers."

"Hero," Kurama repeated, thinking that maybe the third time would prove the charm.

Hiei shrugged. "Also descriptive of my personal qualities."

"Ah. But you never got the joke hidden in my name?"

"Of course. Delamont. Of the mountain. Mount Kurama. I'm rolling on the ground with laughter."

"I can see that."

"And your French accent sucks."

Kurama passed it off with a shrug. "I'm sure the Puffingtons couldn't tell." Hiei, on the other hand, was well-known as a performer, at least in Japan. "Let's just hope they haven't recognized _you_."

"Ch. It was dark, they probably never saw my latest beer commercial, and they had other things on their minds."

Inside the Silver Sands, they disconnected the Agency's surveillance modules, working swiftly and seamlessly.

Hiei removed the Eye In The Sky unit from the GPS system. "I liked Mrs. P," he said, fitting the unit into its case.

"You like everything that walks on two legs and calls itself a mother," Kurama said, retrieving the Tarukane dossier from a kitchen drawer.

"She was a mom all right. In the end, her kids mattered more than money."

Sliding the papers in an attache case, Kurama said, "I could get used to this guise. Better than 'cowboy and sidekick.' At least I'm in charge, if only in the nominal sense."

"Ditch the Holmes act. Your English accent's worse than your French."

"You live to humiliate me."

"Nope. That's just an on-the-job perc."

Kurama slid into the pilot's seat and disconnected the All-Ears module from beneath the dashboard, then handed it to Hiei.

Hiei placed it in a foam-lined case. "Though come to think of it, did Holmes cheat by way of so much spy equipment?"

"This degree of technology didn't exist back in Victorian England, but Holmes had his Baker Street Irregulars, and the very latest in magnifying glasses." Placing his hands behind his back, Kurama again assumed the Holmes persona. "In fact, my dear Hiei, the study of different brands of tobacco alone-"

"Seriously. Stop."

"By the measured use of deductive reasoning we can-"

"Zip it."

Kurama gave a chuckle. "If I'm Holmes, I suppose that makes you Watson?"

"Well, Watson _was_ the practical guy packin' heat."

"Hiei." Running a hand through his loaded hair, Kurama spoke with mock-severity. "I pack my own brand of heat."

"We got everything?" Hiei glanced around.

Kurama affirmed that they did, then wondered whether the Puffingtons would be able to drive the Silver Sands, which was a whopping 45 feet long.

"The dad's a truck driver," Hiei reminded him.

"Truck? This is a spaceship," Kurama said.

It was Hiei who had the driver's license, but the Silver Sands had been Kurama's idea.

Not only was it big enough for the entire Puffington family, but it would speed them safely away from the premises. The Class-A motor home, with its stereo, TV, bath, kitchen, even a washer/dryer combo, was more spacious and luxurious than any apartment where square footage was at a premium, including Tokyo and northwest central London.

Hiei removed the last piece of equipment, an infrared camera, this time placing it in a backpack.

Kurama studied the cockpit, with its array of gauges. "I hope they can figure out how everything works."

"Talk about mother hens," muttered Hiei.

"I shall ignore your insult in favor of asking if Thrustlewood will remain at the mansion."

"For a week or so while the Agency gets it into shape."

Kurama said, "If the family knew Thrustlewood was-"

"-an operative. And one-quarter _youkai,_" Hiei filled in.

"They'd probably all faint," concluded Kurama.

"I guess in a sense," Hiei mused, "the kid was right."

"About what?"

"The butler did it."

For it was indeed the unflappable Thrustlewood who had contacted the Agency early on: offering vital information, acting, in part, as a Baker Street Irregular himself, minus the ragamuffin garb.

"What'll happen to the Tarukane manor?" Kurama inquired.

"It'll be used to develop the Agency's more outlandish weapons-and train some of their more dangerous agents."

"Such as yourself?"

Hiei laughed. "Who else?"

Kurama peered out a window at the manor: a looming hulk of brick and memories. "Perhaps it should be burnt to the ground and sprinkled with Holy Water."

"Kurama, you surprise me." But then-Hiei surprised Kurama, actually spraying Holy Water around the motor home, and hanging a spare Rosary over the cockpit's rear-view mirror.

"I never get your limits, Hiei."

"Ch." Hiei took one last look around the Silver Sands. "I just don't want to 'rescue' the Puffingtons again."

They exited the motor home, stowing their gear in the Land Cruiser, awaiting the family.

The Puffingtons arrived on schedule, and left by the main road, but Kurama wasn't so lucky.

As Hiei climbed into the Land Cruiser, Kurama released a long-suffering sigh. Hiei drove like a Kamikaze pilot amped up on gunpowder and uranium.

"I had fun," said Hiei, as the Silver Sands pulled away. "Even though I didn't get to kill anyone."

"Don't ever change," said Kurama.

Hiei turned the ignition. The engine revved, the wheels spat mud, the seat slammed Kurama in the back, and Hiei took off like a bat out of Hades.

But Kurama was fairly certain they would make it home in one piece. It was, after all, elementary.

-30-

(A/N: For all you fountain pen aficionados, Hiei's pen is the Hero 1026, loaded with Sailor Black ink.

The mysterious Agency and its workings is documented in _Operation: Rosary_ and _The Book of Cat With Moon._)

Thanks, and please scroll down for more Agency action with a brief preview of _Trade Secret_:

To the untrained eye, here was a good-looking lad in his middle twenties, with bristling black hair, keen crimson gaze, and a build for swift combat.

Except that Hiei wasn't exactly human.

On permanent duty in Tokyo by way of Boston, Father Brian McCormick had watched Hiei grow over these last few years from a sullen, disengaged loner with a sense of honor, to a sullen, disengaged loner with a sense of honor and a bulging caseload.

Give the boy credit. He griped, but always got his man. And there is far more to the heart, human or _youkai_, than presents itself on the surface.

No doubt Hiei's interior life was as surprising and varied as anyone else's, while the house of his spirit contained a nobility that he himself would vigorously deny.

Ah, the dear little pissant.

Father Brian shifted his attention to the third person in the office besides himself: another shadowy figure lurking in the opposite corner, pondering the expansive view of the city from the grand window behind 'N's' desk.

A tall man, caped and costumed, the silent stranger was a mystery wrapped in an enigma.

"No way," Hiei went on, "Not this assignment." He turned an almost comically-wounded gaze on Father Brian. "Aren't you always telling me I have the right to refuse any job?"

Father Brian played his trump card. "Ah, sure an' I got nothin' t' do with this one, lad."

Puzzlement and suspicion stitched the boy's brows together. "Then why are you even _here?_"

"I just wanted to meet The Batman." Father Brian waved a hand in that direction. And in between the time that he'd turned to indicate the caped crusader, and the time he turned back, Hiei had gone.

-30-

(To be continued-someday.)


End file.
